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Man on wire — universal man, revolutionary man, solitary man. He is on the wire for all of us, a rebel aloft. And, he is on the wire alone, unfolding a singular audacious dream. Upon a thin, grand, and ephemeral stage, he awaits the gaze of those who've never dared such dreams (not even in sleep). For them, for us, he steps out into the air in comradely defiance — liberté, égalité, fraternité — having willed into the world a suspension of law, of logic, of gravity, and — for a few moments — of death. Philippe Petit, Little Phillip, floats against the sky. We gasp, hold our breath, and wonder about the fragility, mystery, and beauty of life.
The documentary, Man on Wire, James Marsh's testament to Petit's 1974 crossing between the World Trade Towers, captures the poetry of the high wire artist. It also leaves us pondering about a life lived on the edge, an intense pursuit where art resembles a bank heist. Do only outlaws surmount gravity? Is passion a privilege of the reckless or the daring? Petit resists such questions — or answers, for that matter — as he poses and then retreats from psychoanalytic capture, why did he start to climb? “I'll let the psychiatrists decide … who knows, who cares?” And we can respect this claim, for what couch could hold him before he scrambled up and balanced upon its edge, juggling the tissues and the Standard Edition?
No, not analysis. A response, a reaction, a view looking up from below. So what figures are visible up on the wire?
Beauty. I see a figure lying down in the air. Lying down! A pole, a man, one leg extended. Utter repose, a fraction from the abyss. Upright again. Somehow up and moving again. All framed by the sky, a thin line drawn across its aspect. Floating between two end points, precipices, edges of the known world. Beautiful. A thing of beauty.
Trespass. The thrill of the transgressive. The set-up has all the hallmarks of a bank job or a con game. Fake uniforms, identifications, and invoices. Lurking in the corner. Evadi